


Keeping Vigil

by lamardeuse



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James watches over Lewis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Vigil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/gifts).



> Written for wendymr and Lewis Secret Santa on Lewis Challenge, 2013. 
> 
> Set from The Great and the Good through The Quality of Mercy.

“All right, that's enough for you.”

James started awake, his neck muscles twinging as his head snapped up. Swiftly, he took in his surroundings: sitting on the floor in Oswald Cooper's underground lair, stacks of papers and files piled around him. He'd lost track of how long he'd been here. He looked up to see Lewis standing above him, offering a hand.

“Time to go,” Lewis said, wriggling his fingers impatiently.

“'M'not leaving without you,” James said, aware he sounded like a petulant six-year-old but past caring.

“I meant both of us, soft lad,” Lewis murmured. James met his gaze, then hauled himself to his feet without Lewis' assistance.

“Your back, sir,” he said. 

Lewis raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, there's nothing wrong with my throat, except that it's parched. Come on, I'll buy you a pint.”

James thought about declining – in his experience, alcohol and memories were never a good combination – but if he turned down the offer, Lewis would just go drinking without him. Nodding, he followed Lewis out the door and into the light.

  


  


  


  


 

  


  


  


Later that night, James was fumbling with the key to Lewis' flat, because Lewis was currently employing all of his available energy to remain upright. It was a battle he was destined to lose.

Finally, success. The door gave way, and James turned on the hall light before returning to Lewis, who was now leaning against the wall. “Here we are, sir, home safe and sound.” When Lewis didn't move, James laid a hand on his shoulder. 

Lewis stiffened under his touch. “M'alright from here,” he said, wearily. 

“You may be, but you'll make me much happier if I can see you inside,” James said. 

Lewis sighed, muttered something like 'I might have known', then pushed himself upright before tottering into the flat. 

Hathaway wasn't entirely clear on the proper etiquette for putting one's drunken superior to bed. It wasn't that none of his previous guv'nors had overindulged in his presence, but they'd always had families to go home to. The fact that Lewis was alone would not of itself have triggered James' concern, but the man was rather spectacularly pissed, and he was clearly reliving the loss of his wife. He certainly didn't think Lewis was a suicide risk, but he might suffer complications from his visit to the pub that could turn serious.

At least that's what James told himself. He almost believed it, but for the fact that he was more than a little besotted with Robbie Lewis, and could be counted on to seek any excuse to be near him. It was just possible that his feelings might be clouding his judgment ever so slightly.

As James mulled this over, Lewis, who seemed to have given up fighting James' presence as minder, stripped off his jacket and tie and moved to the kitchen, where he poured himself a generous glass of water and downed it in a few gulps. 

“Wise idea, sir.”

Lewis snorted. “Learnt the hard way.” He planted his hands on the counter and hung his head. “Bloody hell, I can't feel me face. That hasn't happened in a long time.” 

“Sir, I –”

“I'm just going to go to bed, Hathaway,” Lewis said. “Shut the door behind you when you leave, yeah?” 

“Certainly,” James muttered, as Lewis shoved himself off the counter and staggered down the hall. 

Contrary to Lewis' instructions, James pottered around the flat, cleaning the few dishes that had accumulated in Lewis' sink, straightening the pile of newspapers on the table beside his living room chair. When he was sure Lewis was in bed, James crept down the hall and found him completely unconscious, snoring gently. 

James chewed on a nail, watching him. It was past time to go, he knew that; still, something was holding him back.

_Something_ , James thought. _You know perfectly well what it is._ For weeks, he hadn't been able to put it from his mind: waking up with Lewis watching over him, remembering in the next moment that Lewis had walked into a burning building to save him. Since then, his feelings for Lewis had become quite absurd, but there was nothing James could do about it. He suspected they'd fade in time – or at least, he hoped. Lewis was obviously still in mourning, and even if he wasn't, he'd never see James in the same way.

James stood there in the doorway for some minutes, keeping vigil. When he found himself nodding off, the sense of his own absurdity forced his feet to finally move. 

He was halfway to the door when he heard the shout. 

Rushing back, he saw Lewis in distress – limbs thrashing, calling out piteously for his wife, yet still clearly asleep. Without hesitation, James sat on the bed and shook him. “Sir, you're dreaming. Wake up.”

“Val, no!” Lewis shouted, stiffening as if shot. His back was turned, so James couldn't tell if he'd wakened or not, but after a moment, his whole body began shivering, as though wracked by a cold, bitter wind.

“Sir,” James said again, then, daring greatly, “Robbie. It's –” He bit his tongue, because he'd been about to say _it's all right,_ but of course it wasn't. Val was gone, never to return, and so Lewis' waking reality was actually no better than his nightmare. He debated what to say next, and settled on, “I'm here.” 

Lewis said nothing, merely continued to shudder, so James kept talking: “I know you wanted me to go, but – I couldn't leave you alone.”

Lewis took a deep, shaky breath, let it out. “I was – I was doing okay,” he said, his voice rough, his back still to James. “Not great, mind you, but okay. Then that bastard brought it all back, and I –” another indrawn breath, with the hint of a sob.

“I know,” James said, squeezing Lewis' shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

Lewis passed a hand across his face, then rolled onto his back, where he stared up at the ceiling. “I'm the one who's sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn't have gotten myself into such a state. It's not professional.”

James looked down at him, his heart pounding. “I'm not here as your bagman,” he said. He knew he should finish that statement with a vow of simple friendship, but the words wouldn't come.

Lewis was very drunk, but he was still a detective; his gaze was far too assessing for James' comfort. “Well, I'm glad you're here, no matter the reason.” 

“I suppose I should let you sleep,” James said. 

Lewis chuckled humourlessly. “Wasn't sleeping all that well, was I? The last few nights have been the same – ever since I got that bloody letter from Cooper. I was hoping the beer would put me right out, but that hasn't worked, either.”

“I could – stay. In case you had another nightmare.” James' mouth snapped shut. Had he actually said that aloud?

Lewis frowned at him. “I'd never ask you to do that.”

“I know you wouldn't. That's why I'm offering.”

Lewis shook his head. “I don't have a spare bed.”

“I could kip on the couch.”

“Don't be silly. That couch is two foot shorter than you are.” Lewis sighed, and James told himself it wasn't a sound of disappointment. 

Without his permission, James' gaze strayed to the empty side of the bed. When he looked back, Lewis' eyes were wide. 

“I couldn't ask you to –” Lewis began.

“I know,” James murmured. He could feel his pulse beating heavily in his neck. “I'm still offering.”

Lewis closed his eyes. “I wouldn't even consider it if I were sober. But I'm so damned tired – you have no idea. I'm desperate.”

“Nice to know I'm the choice of drunken desperation,” James said, smiling. He felt weightless, giddy. It was an effort to stay anchored to the mattress.

Lewis snorted, and just like that the odd tension between them was gone. “Spare toothbrush's under the sink,” he said, already drifting off again.

“Luxury accommodation,” James said, smiling back. 

When James returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, Lewis was fast asleep. Carefully, he stripped down to his boxers and climbed into the far side of the bed. Certain he was too keyed up to sleep himself, he nonetheless dropped off within a few minutes, lulled by the sound of Lewis' even breathing.

  


  
  


 

  


  


  


  


  


James awoke with a start to the smell of cooking. Blinking at the bright sunlight pouring through the window, he hastily donned the clothes he'd shedded a few hours before and wobbled down the hall. 

He'd slept in Robbie Lewis' bed last night. True, it wasn't all he'd imagined it could be, but it was far more than he'd ever expected.

Lewis was indeed frying bangers, and greeted James with a smile and a thrice-blessed cup of coffee. “Get that down your neck, lad,” he instructed, and James gratefully followed his order. 

“You're almost chipper,” James observed, hiding his own smile behind his cup. 

“Almost,” Lewis admitted. “I don't remember having any more nightmares.”

“I don't think you had any,” James said. “At least, none that woke me.”

“You – erm – you slept okay, then?”

“Fine,” James said, spreading some butter on a couple of toast rounds that had just popped up. “Those orthopaedic mattresses work wonders.”

“You're a caution,” Lewis huffed. “At any rate, thank you.”

James shrugged, trying to keep it light. “You didn't have any more nightmares, so I'm afraid I wasn't much use.”

“You were,” Lewis insisted. Startled, James met his gaze. “I slept better than I have in days. Weeks. Months, to be honest.” Lewis' cheeks were a little ruddy as he turned back to the hob.

James' throat was tight. “I'm glad.”

Lewis cracked an egg into a bowl. “How d'you like 'em?”

“Lightly poached over thinly sliced chorizo, with a side of lime crème fraiche.”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “Over easy all right?”

James laughed and nodded, taking a bite of his toast. 

  


  
  


  


  


  


  


  


Over the next few months, a pattern formed. Lewis was always fine for the first couple of weeks after James stayed over, but beyond that, James began to notice the signs that Lewis wasn't sleeping properly. The following weekend, James would arrive at Lewis' with a takeaway and a few pints of Hooky's, and he'd end up spending the night. Lewis always made a token protest at the idea of imposing on James, but the lure of a decent night's sleep was too much for him to resist.

And Lewis did sleep like the proverbial rock on the nights James spent with him. He knew this because he often watched over him, the way Lewis had done for him. 

In the morning, Lewis would cook him a fry-up in gratitude, and that, as they say, was that. They didn't mention it outside of Lewis' flat, or indeed outside of those nights and mornings. There was never anything untoward, though James was finding it increasingly difficult to keep from reaching out during his nighttime vigils and stroking Lewis' hair, his cheek. He knew this was not helping him move beyond his inappropriate fixation – quite the opposite, in fact – but he couldn't bear to put a stop to it. 

Lewis needed him. He needed him for something other than his Cambridge-educated brain or his ability to polish off paperwork in record time. 

And James wouldn't give that up for the world.

  


  


  


 

  


  


  
  


  


On a night about four months in, Lewis invited James home for dinner. Their conversation was awkward, stilted – until James realised Lewis wanted to ask him to stay the night. He couldn't say what it was that convinced him of this, but he was certain of it.

“How have you been sleeping?” James asked, too casually, as they sat on the couch half-watching _QI._

Lewis paused before answering. He knew quite well this was the prelude to James asking to stay; they'd enacted the ritual often enough. 

“Fine,” he said. 

James frowned at him, surprised; perhaps he'd been wrong.

“But it's been – it was six years ago today,” Lewis continued, finally looking up to meet James' gaze. “Since – the accident.”

James' chest tightened. He didn't know what to say. Lewis scrubbed at his face with his hands, clearly embarrassed. “I don't want to ask – I know I've no right. But this night is always a bad one.”

James had to grip his own thigh to keep from reaching out. “You have every right,” he said, as passionately as he dared. “What we do here – it doesn't have any bearing on what we do during the day.”

Lewis shot him a rueful look. “Doesn't it?”

James shook his head. “I don't think so. Like I said, I'm not doing this as your bagman.”

Lewis sighed. “One of these days, you're going to tell me why you _are_ doing this, yeah?”

Hathaway's heart thumped, once. He didn't answer, but then Lewis didn't seem to expect one.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


That night, Lewis did indeed have the first nightmare James had witnessed in four months, and in the beginning it refused to let him go. He shook Lewis awake twice. When the dream gripped him a third time, James molded himself to Lewis' back and wrapped an arm around him. Lewis, who had been thrashing again, calmed almost immediately, then seemed to go boneless, relaxing into the touch. 

James held on until he was certain Lewis was asleep, but when he tried to pull away, Lewis' own hand rose to cover Hathaway's on his chest. 

He fell asleep that way, touching and touched by Lewis, transformed in that moment from hopeless to hopeful. 

  
  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


When Richard Scott was murdered eight days later, everything went to hell.

  


  


 

  


  


  
  


  


  


Throughout Monkford's court appearance, James stayed as close as he dared to Lewis, watching over him as best he could, though he knew it would never be enough. Lewis' words were still echoing in his ears weeks later – _Nothing helps._ _Nothing helps. Nothing._

James knew now that his silly dreams that Lewis might one day reciprocate his feelings had been illusions. But that shameless flow of love wasn't something that could be easily turned off, and so he was left trailing Lewis round like a puppy – even asking Innocent for relationship advice, for God's sake – until he forgave James' transgressions.

The truth wasn't quite as he had told her: Robbie Lewis was no enigma to him, not now. But the idea of laying so much pain at his doorstep, even though there was no other choice open to him, even though he had no part in causing it, had been unbearable. 

He'd been a coward, and in the end had caused even more pain. 

When it was all over and Lewis offered his simple, wary thanks at the top of the stairs, James was momentarily at a loss. He touched Lewis in pathetic gratitude, without conscious thought – and felt him stiffen under his hand. Just a fraction, but it was there; James could read Lewis as easily as he could a hoarding beside the M40. 

As they descended the stairs together, James wondered if that would be the last time he'd ever touch Lewis.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


To James' surprise, Lewis invited him back to his flat. “There's a new Indian restaurant on the corner, and I fancy a curry,” was his gruff rationale. James tried not to think anything at all of this – at worst, Lewis was taking him home to tell him he wanted a new bagman, and at best – well, James couldn't envision an “at best” scenario in this moment.

They were sitting down to dinner when James decided to try to salvage whatever he could. “First of all, I want to tell you I'm sorry,” he said, which made Lewis glance up at him from where he was dishing out palao rice. “About not telling you right away, about – well, everything about the way I handled the situation, really.”

Lewis studied him for an endless, breathless moment, then shook his head. “I understand, James. You didn't want to be the one to tell me.”

“Not exactly,” James corrected. “I didn't want it to be anyone <em> _else_ </em>, but I didn't want to have to tell you the story at all.” He locked gazes with Lewis. “I know it was childish. I couldn't stand to see you in pain.”

“The pain was already there,” Lewis told him gently. “But you helped to ease it by finding Monkford. And that's not all you've done for me.”

James stared at his plate. “I haven't done anything but serve my own ends,” he murmured. 

“You're wrong about that,” Lewis said. James raised his head, surprised. “Why would you think that you haven't made a difference?”

James could feel his face flush. “You told Monkford – that nothing helped.”

Lewis frowned, then shook his head. “The truth is, I don't remember half of what I said to that bastard. But there was no way in hell I was going to tell _him_ about –” Lewis made an awkward back-and-forth gesture “– whatever's going on here.”

James laughed in spite of himself. “Perhaps because you have no idea what it is?”

“Do you?” 

James smiled, overcome by fondness. “Not exactly.”

“I've told myself a hundred times I have to stop. I know I'm taking advantage –”

“No. You're not,” James said fiercely. _I'm the one who's taking advantage,_ he nearly added. _I'm the one who wants this more than anything._

“Still. I shouldn't –”

“Do you want to stop?” James demanded.

Lewis stared at him for a long moment. “No,” he said. “God help me, no, I don't.”

“Good. Neither do I.” 

“You won't say that when you find someone and settle down.”

“Bridges yet to be crossed,” James said, waving a hand. 

Lewis pinned him with his gaze. “You want more than this, don't you? I mean – from me.”

James felt his stomach plummet. “It doesn't matter.”

“You do, though. That's what you meant, earlier.”

“Would it alarm you if I said yes?” James murmured. 

Lewis snorted. “It would take more than a skinny lad like you to 'alarm' me.” Rising to his feet, he walked round the table to stand beside James, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. To James, he looked alive, and determined, and terribly, terribly lovely.

“I'm glad to hear it,” James said, looking up at him.

“Listen. The timing's shit, yeah? I'm not ready for anything, with anyone.”

“I understand –” James began. Lewis shot him a dark look, and he quieted.

“But I won't continue this if there's no chance I can be what you want,” Lewis said softly, “so I think we might –” Lewis cupped James' cheek “– give it a try.”

At the touch of Lewis' hand, James shivered. His head tilted up as Lewis leaned down, and their lips touched, brushed, clung. As he opened to Lewis' tentative kiss, James fisted his hands in his lap to keep from putting his arms around him.

When Lewis pulled back, James saw that his eyes were still shut. James waited, his heart beating so quickly he thought it might burst from his chest.

Finally, Lewis' eyes opened. “Yeah,” he rasped, “I think that might work.”

James couldn't help it: he burst into a broad, happy grin. Lewis chuckled. 

“Go on with you,” Lewis huffed. His cheeks were pink. He was beautiful.

James said nothing, only reached for the rice and began spooning some onto his own plate as Lewis returned to his seat.

Tonight he'd be sleeping in Robbie Lewis' bed. And one day, it would be everything he'd imagined it could be.

  



End file.
